


you call my truth in the worst way

by elizajumel



Category: 18th Century CE RPF
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-07-13
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:55:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,150
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25243498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elizajumel/pseuds/elizajumel
Summary: “You are a dangerous man, colonel,” and Aaron laughs in his face this time: this man, the most dangerous thing in his life, a summer storm and a hot knife and a loaded gun, accusations sung so pretty he almost wants to keep them at his bedside rather than deflect the charges, read them like poetry instead of war missives. [Summer of 1798]
Relationships: Aaron Burr/Alexander Hamilton
Kudos: 42





	you call my truth in the worst way

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Religious Duty](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6178921) by [ghostburr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostburr/pseuds/ghostburr). 



Little Hamilton, the poet. This he’d known before ever laying eyes or hands on him. Can still recite from the clipping he kept for weeks on the bedside table, pressed between more innocuous pages, the pious drivel followed by verse that begged awe for his sheer audacity, _a youth about seventeen_ submitting such a piece for publication— _for do but rub her ’gainst the grain_ runs through his head as the other man, piqued and incandescent, holds him fast against the wall—signed _your obedient servant_ , the very words Hamilton breathes and laughs now into his ear.

Too clever by half, the charity case from the island, mouth brimming with words and ideas too big for his station; Aaron still remembers their meeting, the quick tug of attraction like a hook in his belly, the gasp of a fish on the line. How the other boy talked—held court—while he listened, followed the dance of those freckled hands through the air. Tactile. That much Aaron could have guessed from his writing.

How they’d gotten here—still reeling, scrabbling for the solidity of brick wall behind him, he tries to retrace their steps. The tavern, the war stories, the singing—the newly appointed General Hamilton, on top of the table and flushed with drink yet perfectly on pitch, a descant piercing through the incoherent bellowing of Morris and the others—himself seated below in Hamilton’s shadow, glass emptied thrice over, sour and slighted. His one-time—sometime—friend pulling him to his feet, grasping his chin to tip it back, slurring, bright-eyed, _Come now, colonel—_ the title he had fought and bled for an insult, suddenly _—you simply must enjoy yourself_ —

He rakes his hands through the other man’s hair, pulls hard enough to make it smart. Hamilton only laughs and laughs, and Aaron pulls harder, wants to hear the air scrape harsh in his throat, hear the laughter die on his clever tongue, to shut him up for once. “Jealousy looks good on you,” the other man says, even as Aaron’s teeth come down on his neck. “Always so in _control_ , colonel—”

Aaron rears back and slaps him, hand moving in advance of his conscious judgment. His rival’s eyes widen, then narrow as he brings his fingertips to the red blooming wanton on his right cheek. Self-possession—even an infuriating smugness—settles back in over his momentary surprise. “You always did forget yourself over Washington, didn’t you?” he whispers, reaching for Aaron and stroking the back of his neck with patronizing tenderness. Aaron summons all his soldierly discipline, does not, will not buckle—“Funny how you mistrust each other when you’re so similar—gathering your little bands of younger, more talented men—”

“What are you saying?” Aaron hisses, the implications of the comparison making heat rise in his own face.

“You and your Myrmidons,” Hamilton murmurs, fingers curling into the hair at the base of his neck. “Oh, how they worship you, those naive young men you seduce to your cause—if you could even be said to _have_ one—you should hear how they talk about you out of earshot—”

 _And how would you even know_ , he wants to spit back, _eavesdropping shamelessly, intent on my destruction—how do_ you _talk about me when you think I will not hear it_ —“You are a dangerous man, colonel,” and Aaron laughs in his face this time: _this_ man, the most dangerous thing in his life, a summer storm and a hot knife and a loaded gun, accusations sung so pretty he almost wants to keep them at his bedside rather than deflect the charges, read them like poetry instead of war missives.

“What do you _do_ to those young men, to persuade them,” the hypocrisy of him astonishing as he curls into Aaron’s front, eyes turned upward, making himself almost small against his chest. Aaron’s breath catches, stupidly, at the way his voice draws up an octave when he speaks next, younger and deceptively sweet—“You must be so good to them, colonel.”

Aaron sees white for a second, flips their places and shoves the other man up against the wall. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

“What do you do to them?” Hamilton repeats, his grip on the back of his neck insistent, teeth bared in a mirror of his own mad grin. “Do you make them call you daddy?”

Heat bolts through him like a wild horse. His knees do buckle, then, and he lets Hamilton push him through the door into the adjacent empty room, onto the bed, take him into his mouth. Threads his fingers through Hamilton’s hair and holds his head down fast, hissing, “You never loved anything more than the sound of your own voice— _say it_ —”

Hamilton jerks his head up with a gasp, mouths the word wet and obscene, keeps on saying it as Aaron enters him, and others, _please, sir, yes, there, that_ —

“You’re no better than the rest,” Aaron murmurs in his ear from behind, watching the pretty freckled fingers flex and clench on the sheets, the jagged, angry sounds that slide out between his gritted teeth; always so easily provoked, so _competitive_ —riding the coattails of greater, cooler, calmer men, using his beauty, his body, to get ahead—some _general_ , who spent half the war in a tent penning useless letters—Hamilton growls at his words and thrusts back against him, hitting a spot that briefly makes Aaron feel like he might black out. Distantly, he registers that this is what the other man has always done: manufacture a situation in which he can let himself be taken advantage of, then turn it against Aaron afterwards, and he finds he can’t even care, it’s too fucking good to pass up—perhaps Hamilton was right about him after all—

The other man has taken up the litany, talks and talks even as Aaron’s hands close around his neck, tight enough to leave a bruised red ring—how he would explain _that_ away as he explains away all his transgressions—voice whittled down to the rasp of a single word, and they both come like that, the taut surrender of him drawing Aaron under, his own weakness in a word spilling forth— _Alexander_ —

_Behold a storm, blow winds and rain—_

The other man settles against him, a huff of laughter hitting the side of his neck, and Aaron cards his fingers through his hair and replays it all in his mind, the singing, the slap, the honeyed voice swinging low and then high. The damp red locks slide out from his grasp; Hamilton stands over him, fastening buttons, reassembling himself. With a nod, and an unexpected softness that gets him half-hard again, “I do hope you had a pleasant time tonight, colonel,” and he’s gone, leaving Aaron behind as if pinned to the bed, still breathless.

_Good faith he has you fast._

**Author's Note:**

> Title from Bishop Briggs's "Wild Horses."
> 
> Shamelessly inspired by the honeymoon fuckfest in ghostburr's modern AU xoxo
> 
> The sexual use of "daddy" dates at least as far back as 1681: https://bit.ly/2DDfRCe


End file.
